A burn mark

“Here’s your coffee, Damon,” Amara said, carefully setting the tray on Damon’s desk.

He took the cup, sipping it cautiously. “No sugar this time,” he muttered, more to himself than to her. He sighed and set the cup down.

“You can go now, Amara,” Damon said, turning back to his work.

Sighing in relief, she turned to leave, but his voice stopped her.

“Amara.”

She turned back, curious and nervous. Just being in a closed space with Damon made her skin prickle, and she couldn’t wait to leave.

“Yes?” Amara asked in a low voice.

His eyes were hard, but there was a flicker of something softer beneath them—something he didn’t want her or anyone else to notice.

“Next time, don’t make such a mistake,” he murmured, referring to the coffee.

Amara nodded, swallowing her discomfort. “I’ll remember that.”

Pushing the door open, she turned to leave, but Damon called her back again.

“Do you need anything else?” she asked, her eyes holding his gaze.

Damon looked confused. Amara felt as if he wanted to tell her something but was unable to bring himself to do it.

“Shut the door,” he grumbled, just loud enough for her to hear.

Obeying his command, she stepped out of his room and silently shut the door, making her way back to the laundry room.

She met Veronica, her fellow maid.

“Well, who do we have here?” Veronica mockingly grinned as she got closer to Amara. “Is this not our delusional Amara?” she smirked.

But as usual, Amara decided to ignore her and walk away.

Veronica gripped her left arm, forcing her to stop in her tracks.

“What do you want this time, Veronica?” Amara asked in a low voice, clearly not in the mood for Veronica’s banter and mockery.

Veronica chuckled. “Are you just coming from Damon’s room?” she teased.

Amara didn’t respond because she knew exactly where this conversation was headed.

“Oh, Amara, look at you blushing like a newlywed bride. Did you go to see your crush?” Veronica taunted. “Were you able to gawk at him like you always do?” she sneered.

But Amara remained silent. In the whole mansion, Veronica was the only one aware of Amara’s crush on Damon, and that was because she once caught Amara in Damon’s room sniffing his shirt before taking it out for laundry.

Ever since then, Veronica had used every opportunity to mock Amara about her feelings for Damon—going so far as to blackmail her.

“Stop it, Veronica. Just tell me what you want,” Amara shot her a sharp glance.

“Listen,” Veronica said with a smirk playing on her lips, “I want a few dollars before the end of the week.”

She stepped closer. “If you don’t give me the money, then I’ll let everyone know your dirty little secret, Amara,” she added cruelly.

“See you later.” She blew a mocking kiss at Amara, who frowned at her before walking away.

Amara entered the laundry room, her heart racing. She placed the basket beside the ironing board and switched on the iron. As she started ironing, her mind filled with worry.

What if Veronica demands more? Where will I find the money?

Her hands trembled even more.

What if Luna finds out I have feelings for her eldest son?

The thought made her heart pound. She barely had any money, and giving in to Veronica’s blackmail would leave her with almost nothing.

What will I do then?

Fear tightened in her chest as she kept ironing, overwhelmed by the thoughts running through her mind.

Amara didn’t notice the faint smell of burning fabric until it was too late.

The iron hissed, and she quickly yanked it away, but the damage was done. A dark, ugly scorch mark marred the crisp white shirt.

Panic surged through her as she realized—from the brand marked on the collar—that it belonged to Damon.

Her breath caught in her throat. Damon was known for his meticulousness, and he wouldn’t overlook a glaring burn like this.

Terrified, Amara stared at the ruined shirt, tears filling her eyes. She could already imagine the cold rage in Damon’s eyes when he saw it, and she knew he wouldn’t spare her.

Her hands shook as she frantically tried to think of a way to fix the damage, but it was hopeless. The shirt was beyond saving.

Her mind raced with a million thoughts.

What will I say to him? What will he say to me?

Amara couldn’t afford to cry—not now. She carefully folded the shirt, hiding the burn mark as best she could. She needed to find a way out of this mess.

But how?

This shirt was a gift from his mother on his sixteenth birthday, and Damon cherished it deeply.

While she was still thinking about what to do, the door swung open and a male servant stepped in.

“Young Master Damon wants you to bring up his shirts to his room immediately,” the servant informed her before leaving the room.

“Oh no,” Amara exclaimed in panic, staring at the ruined shirt in her hand.

“What do I say to him?” she mumbled in fear, her heart pounding in her chest.

It could have been better if the shirt belonged to anyone else—but not Damon.

She arranged the shirts neatly in a pile inside the basket and left the laundry room.

Arriving at Damon’s room, her heart pounded even harder. At that moment, she wished she could just disappear—but she knew that was impossible.

Drawing in a deep breath, she knocked on the door.

“Get in,” Damon’s usual cold voice echoed from inside.

“You can do this,” she whispered words of encouragement to herself before turning the doorknob and pushing it open.

Stepping into his room, she saw him standing at the window—shirtless, with his back to her.

Confusion and panic set in as she froze, her eyes drawn to the strong lines of his body. She couldn’t help but admire him, even as her mind raced with dread.

She didn’t know what to do or say. Instead, she just stood there, staring at his exposed back.

“What are you doing standing there? Arrange the clothes and get out,” Damon ordered harshly, making Amara even more scared.

When he noticed she hadn’t moved, curiosity flickered across his face. He turned around and looked at her.

“Why are you just standing there? Have your feet been stuck to the ground?” he sneered.

Amara prepared herself for what she was about to say.

“Damon…” she stuttered. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, her lips trembling.

Damon furrowed his brow, confused about why she was apologizing.

“What have you done this time?” he asked, his words sounding harsher than intended.

“I—” Amara’s lips trembled, her heart pounding in her chest.

“Speak, Amara. Quick,” Damon urged with irritation.

“I burned a hole in your shirt!” Amara blurted out, and tears streamed down her cheeks.

“You did what?” Damon’s eyes darkened as he tried to process what she had just said. He took a step closer to her, his jaw clenched in anger.

“You did what?” he repeated slowly, his voice dangerously low.

Amara flinched. This will be my last day in this household, she thought miserably.

“I burned your shirt, Damon. I’m so sorry,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper.

“Where is it?” Damon demanded, his eyes boring into her, filled with a mix of anger and disbelief.

Amara reached into the basket and pulled out the folded shirt. She held it out to him, her eyes wide with fear, knowing there was nothing she could say that would fix this.

Damon snatched the shirt from her hands and unfolded it. His eyes landed on the scorched mark, and a wave of anger washed over him.

Acting on impulse, he threw the shirt back at Amara, hitting her squarely in the face.